Minty Malice
by NIE9210
Summary: Enter the mind of a Joker follower--attached to the mad clown's persona to the point of self-destruction. How will an operation turn him against his idol, what's up with the candy cane, and will Batman be revealed as Bruce Wayne!
1. The Day

Weeeee! I'm back in the game of (sort of)!! As Dark Knight has spawned many permanent and immediately dedicated fans of Batman, I am a great example of this! And as Heath Ledger's amazing Joker has defined the Clown Prince's best persona, Heath's version is the one in this story! Yeah... Sorry if you have a different opinion on those things but you still have the choice to read and enjoy this story! As the author, I ask you to please give it a shot.

DISCLAIMER: Bob Kane and Bill Finger (discredited) own Batman and the Dark Knight was devised by Christopher Nolan. Oh, how I _wish_ the Joker was my creation! HAHAHAHAHAHEEE!!

Minty Malice

Chapter 1: The Day

Huntley Dyson felt nauseous after the lovely Brandy had shoved him in jail for the sixth time. Was watching a beautiful woman go throughout her day _really_ a crime? Huntley detested the law for being so ignorant. But he wasn't in the Gotham City Jail this time around. His repetitive watchfulness into women's lives had finally landed him in the nut house Arkham Asylum. But that was a mere name; a label to separate it out from the others like it. "Attachment disorder" that his doctor diagnosed him with a few years ago was just the same—a name for being a little more needy or skeptical of other people. The only difference Huntley expected in Arkham was padded walls to add to the peeling paint of the iron bars shielding his cell.

Huntley followed the grip of the officers bringing him to his new cell but his mind was shouting in protest. He never looked at anyone or talked to anyone when the officers threw him in his bubbled cell. Completely avoiding human contact was his mission for an entire week's time. The thoughts swimming and multiplying in his mind were too horrifying to share or project in a social pattern with anyone. Even the murders of Gotham. His sandy hair parted at his neck with the thanks of gravity as he bent to stare at the floor. Huntley's neck began to strain after the days and nights of focused eyes and sharp-sythed thoughts. The floor was his subject to hurl these pointed projectile-ideas into until the victims were gone.

The eighth day or so, a cackle thundered down the asylum's halls and into Huntley's ear. His intense trance snapped into alertness as a lithe, purple-suited figure stumbled in front of him with the accompaniment of two guards.

"Heeheeheeeheee, HAH," the madman continued to giggle.

The guards appeared as if they had gotten a migrane when the burly one sighed, "He's back _again!"_

The tall one slammed the door of his cell closed and rested against its frame. "Cahmon! Either stay or go, clown!"

The man behind the bars grinned a clownishly-painted grin that finally silenced his laughter. "I'll do what I want, toothpick! Don'tcha have somewhere to gooo...?" A gloved hand waved them away.

They hesitantly retreated, grimaces covering their faces. The clown, still standing, tackled the wall and slid down to a stop. Huntley viewed this spectacle intently while trying to fit some puzzle pieces together non-verbally. The strange stranger had opened one eye at a time like a chameleon and savagely licked chapped red lips. White face-paint smeared on his face unevenly making him ghostly. Huntley thought while this man had his eyes shut, the black paint slopped over them seemed like two black holes poking from a bony skull. But the skull had unruly, green-tinged twists springing from its head.

As Huntley gawked without considering his eyes boring through the new inmate, the man gingerly hopped up and patted unseen dust from his pantleg. "Joker," was the first word that was directed at Huntley. The Joker held a hand out then quickly noted his mistake. "Ooops, sorry!"

Although Huntley had previously taken in all of the Joker's profile, once he counted his physical presence, he was too far away. All five syllables the Joker had spoken to him instantly had him craving more. Most of all, if the bars had been torn down, he wanted to grab that hand _and_ that body. This was the exact rush that led him to stalk women—an unquenchable infatuation.


	2. The Opening Turnout

"Ha-hello," Huntley barked. "I'm Huntley. Huntley Dyson... What are you in for?"

The Joker went wide-eyed. The howls of laughter revved up yet again. "Heheheheheh... Haaaaaah. Have you watched or read the news, Huntley?"

Huntley drank in every moment. He was off his feet and leaning on the bars now. "I tend to stay away from it... All forms of media are biased, anyway."

"At least you're one of the few who pick up on that. Nowww, wouldn't you say it's still good to be on the _informed_ end of things? Pick through more than one outlet and you'll find the true tale of a robbery, murder, or anything else the _masses_ consider 'news-worthy'. But that's usually not worth the time, anyway."

"I-I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Joker. But what made you end up here?"

"Eh, the dog got caught and leashed again," the Joker said simply.

That statement knocked the wind out of Huntley and sent him on his numb ass again. But he was swift in figuring out another plan to get Joker talking; talking in that charmingly calm voice that could spike seamlessly into a threat zone. Huntley daringly thought he could ease to that edge of malice and get a true taste of the Joker.

"_But_," the Joker lifted his long limbs from his sides into the air, raised his chin to look at an unseen marvel. "Gotham may finally have something to report that the _city_—no, the _world—_will listen to. Or maybe," he carelessly threw his body into the farthest corner of the cell and mocked an expression of horror. "To cower from!"

A few more laughs escaped his mouth and then, the jokester's roles transformed; his white face went as blank as a unwritten page and his position went from crouching to bolt upright. The Joker made urgent steps towards the iron barrier, towards Huntley. Huntley's instinctual reaction was to lean back as distant from the madman as possible. But his mind was doing just the opposite as the madness wrapped around him. An intellect this far warped doesn't fight the invader but instead is disarmed by its hold. A mouse charmed by the colorful serpent. In the end, no matter how appealing it is, the serpent will always be the predator.

"Wh-wha..." Huntley squeaked. He began again feebly, "... Can I help you help Gotham get what it needs?"

If smiles could be heard in unison, this is when they would _crack_; creating a decay in an already-eroding criminal psyche, and laying the insidious structure of something large enough to make Gotham crumble. This was the ongoing process the Joker had for every lackey gained and every deal agreed on. Huntley was just another unknowing victim. But to get it right, to get them seduced then brainwashed, required an elaborate opening act. After all, first impressions can't be made twice, right?

"Yes, YOU! The only problem is when to find the opportune moment," the Joker said as animated as ever.

Huntley jumped up as if the Joker's words of acceptance had freed a final bind on his decision. That was the only signal that the Clown Prince of Crime needed to receive. He could continue the pursuit of flying rodent. In fact, he could babble on and on about the Bat without it hindering anything. This would work for the Joker—maybe even keep him a little saner. Unfortunately, someone beat him to the punch.

"The Batman! I'm sure you've heard how controversial his crime-fighting is within Gotham. Just stir up activity for Batman and you have the whole city going on and on again about whether this is the right time to eliminate him! Long enough to make politicians' heads implode! Make Gotham fight itself so that right and wrong can no longer be distinguishable—" Arkham inmates begin to alert guards of the developing crime. Some simply shout opposition at Huntley, eyeballing the Joker cautiously as if he may have released an untamed beast upon them.

"It will--" Guards wrestle Huntley into a straight jacket to prepare him for solitary confinement. Hauling the breathless Huntley away, he presses for the last few words to come out: "It will breed--"

"Chaos," the Joker kindly finished for him. All the clown could think of as Huntley beamed back at him, being escorted by the officers, was that Huntley _had_ to be a new record time for victim poisoning.


	3. Character Flaw

Author's note: I can't believe I wrote all the angst in the middle of the night... Even _I_ feel sorry for Huntley now!! That shouldn't happen! DX

* * *

Character Flaw

* * *

Huntley lie in the bright room, pulled his upper body off the floor, and wormed his way to the wall closest to the door he was shoved through. This barrier was different; his eyes could not feast on the Joker's form so the distance was sharply felt. After scooting across the spongy room, he propped his back against the wall to cease the fight of closing the gap.

A ferocious patheticness made his brain pulse loudly, pounding in his ears. If he had access to the movement of his arms, Huntley would clench the holding place of his insanity between shaking hands. Self-inflicting thoughts regurgitated themselves again and again; the dire want to rip the flesh of his own face just to feel the pain of his mistakes. First punishment, then redemption. This would earn his respect. Or so Huntley dearly believed.

The frustration still building to an infinite plane, his body compressed into the tightest and smallest position possible. Then, with his head bent solemnly, face smashed into any surface that could mask the embarrassment, he wept heavily.

Barbaric screams traveled beyond Huntley's door, awakening and sending prisoners into the very same raging insomnia of the new solitarily-confined-inmate.

The nonsensical sounds projecting to other inmates became more repetitive, as if they finally bore some meaning. The more and more the prisoners heard the circling phrase in a continuous loop, murmurs and whispers cursed, attempting to slide into demented dreams beneath dirty sheets. All except one--humming madly to the screams. Literal music to his ears!

These were all the tests the Joker set for his newly-inaugurated fan. Now was the time to present Huntley his prize.

The Joker thrummed loudly against the cell bars, signaling for Punch and others to swarm from the shadows. Harshly white-masked clowns unlocked the cell holding their leader only hiding behind a fading coat of paint. But the Joker did something unusual this time—he coaxed them into his cell. They circled cautiously then settled around to hear him.

No one questioned but rather waited in a hauntingly begging silence. Overhead florescent lights buzzed, flickering each millisecond.

"Sooo," the Joker's excitement was confirmed by a widening smile. "Hear that?"

Silence intensified, the masked-clowns mocking their leader's hand-to-ear listening joyfully.

"What? I can't hear nuthin' but that guy's blubbering," a follower admitted.

"You ignoramus," Punch replied.

"That's what I'm _listening_ to... Let's get a closer look, shall we?"

After the Joker's command, he jumped out the cell and skipped down the hall, clowns in toe like ducks following their mother.

"What the hell's he sayin'," the same dumb follower dared to ask.

No one answered as the pack crept down to their destination.

Huntley heard a creak, saw the light, and continued to chant: "Those scars! That smile!"

Huntley threw himself to the Joker's feet. This was the first time someone unexpectedly grabbed him. Surprise! An overwhelming sense of success!

Instead of fighting Huntley's hold, he asked the question he would be reciting to all those lucky victims: "... You want to know how I got these scars?"

"I-it doesn't matter," Huntley laughed through his tears hysterically. "As long as it justifies your reason... To make Gotham's people wake up."

Punch came closer. "You might just get it, kid... But you'll find out da truth for yourself."

The Joker felt a stronger tug on his pant leg. He dropped a clownish mask to the ground and led his lackeys out the door. A frantic scramble for the new face was the last that could be heard.

* * *

Bruce stood in the doorway, eyes wide, dress shirt unbuttoned, and a black tie dangling undone from his neck. "... A letter, Alfred?"

Alfred shifted his feet uncomfortably, gulped, averted his eyes, and said, "From the D.A., Mawster Bruce."

Bruce Wayne somberly staggered out of the bedroom to his butler not offering the letter nor keeping it away. Alfred watched his master approach and carefully touch the letter. The butler dutifully loosened his grasp on it. Alfred's fixed gaze on Bruce revealed a slumping posture, bloodshot eyes, and a remorseful expression that completely drained Bruce's first morning burst of energy. But, of course, there was the fact that Harvey Dent was spiteful to the world and no doubt Bruce after Rachel Dawe's death. This rich and powerful man proved that anyone of his stature could be pulled down by the weight of a friend's death and another's hatred. Nonetheless, Alfred would never stray from Bruce and could never think less of him because of emotional drag.

_You can get through this. It won't ever disappear but I pray I can cheer you up_, Alfred Pennyworth had all this flood his mind every glimpse of his master. But this was the world of the lone person to know the identity of Batman intertwined with the loyalty of a servant; but most of all, family loyalty.

Bruce just stared at the envelope without an attempt to reveal its contents. "I... I know I _need_ to, Alfre--"

The butler hastily snatched the unopened letter from him. "For godsakes, Mawster Bruce! It won't bite!" He tried a smile.

After Alfred had registered Bruce's head still tilted downward at an envelope once there and an unmoved expression, he began, "I'm sor--"

"No, Alfred," Bruce looked up from his hands with a small and smug grin. "You're right. Open it for me, will you? Call me crazy, but I don't have the willpower to do it."

A chuckle burst from the butler's mouth. "Ah, I'll give it a go."

Wrinkled thumbs tore at the seal and as Alfred began to pull out the letter's main contents, Bruce Wayne held his breath and grabbed a fistfull of his own hair. An informal letter unfolded and there was a questioning moment if the letter should be surrendered to Bruce. Bruce, again, gently probed the letter to feel the thin paper slip into his grip, just as his mind was slipping into fear.

Before Bruce read anything, he informed Alfred, "Th-the letter was post-marked the day before yesterday. So it was the day before..."

Alfred nodded solmenly to convey his understanding and to press Bruce to read it.

_Dear Bruce Wayne,_

_I'm sending this without my office's address or without my professional status labelled so obviously bolded and fancied up. Why? Because I want to talk to you man-to-man. This needn't be anything formal that businessmen and women gossip about for weeks to wonder what issues we discussed. Let them think we debated on Gotham's next steps. But it isn't those kind of "issues" we desparately need to converse about._

_It's about Rachel. This meeting should be A.S.A.P.; in at least a week. But after going over my schedule (I'm sorry I cannot abide by your schedule, as well), 3 days from now would work best. I'm also deeply sorry about the urgency and promptness in which I expect you to act._

_Your friend,_

_H.D._

"Looks like Dent had planned a visit... Tomorrow... But he didn't know what would be coming so soon..." Bruce trailed off and handed Alfred the letter.

Alfred quickly scanned the words, "The language is also much like the D.A.'s." Alfred felt a shock of guilt run through his spine. Even though Bruce hadn't liked the reminder of what had changed, he still felt obligated to inform his butler about it.

They could only stare at each other.

"Should I heighten Wayne mansion's security? Just to be--"

"No," Bruce turned on his heel, back facing Alfred while walking down the hall. "If anyone will have to handle it _that_ way, Batman is the only one who can."


	4. Jackpot

Author's Note: Sorry, my international fan-base!! I have come home! (Enter the egotistic-Tia mode.... -___-;) Thank you for your patience or even your impatience! It just shows me how much you care~! ^___^ Ok; let's kill all the fluffy-bunniness and get down to the raw, dirty, harsh reality of Huntley Dyson! * Smiles * Which may in fact be more sinister after I have been exposed by the amazingly orgasmic, dream/nightmare-like brain of Dave McKean—the godly man who knows how to make a piece of shit beautiful in _Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on a Serious Earth_! * Sighs * I will track him, Christopher Nolan, Steven Moffat, and the Valve creators of Portal down and create an amazing British brain-trust that could very well inspire me everyday of my life... ON WITH THE GOD-FORESAKEN STORY!!!

**Jackpot**

_How long had it been?_ For the ex-stalker, it might as well have been eons since he last saw his conductor. Although, it had really been only a few months. Huntley had been released from the asylum on "good behavior" to a mostly normal lifestyle while still performing the correct notes of the Joker's symphony. How? To Huntley's relief in maintaining his fix, the Joker haphazardly duct-taped a cellular phone to the inside of his mask.

Once Huntley first plucked at the sticky material to reach the phone, he obsessively punched the button sequence to enter the cell's phone book. All the numbers had been there—all seven key numerals that would allow the device to swim through millions of Gotham's gossipers to reach a voice as malleable as liquid mercury; with outward symptoms of the metal's poisoning. But a message had been sent by the deranged individual commanding Huntley, as his very first task, to memorize the number then wipe it from digital existence. He had repeated it aloud every second the night had to offer, aware that the cell's cushy walls would muffle his sounds.

Now, he had applied and had been accepted as a window-washer and also attended orchestra concerts as a hobby—all as facades formulated by the Joker's mind. Huntley never verbally questioned his "conductor"--the nickname he had dubbed the Joker echoing within his limitless neurological pathways—but he had pondered why he had to be employed in such menial jobs. Though he had asked the conductor's permission for getting other menial, part-time jobs under his belt to fund his orchestra concert visits. This got the OK by the conductor, who answered quickly and with an edge of vexation on the other end of the line. A click followed, signaling to Huntley that the conductor had more important business to attend to. Huntley hung up as well then savored the fresh transaction with his conductor. The Joker truly threw the phone down in disgust, still smiling at the fact that he was Huntley's conductor, alright; he would conduct his fate up to the big finale!

One night, about a month ago, Huntley brushed up to hear the cellos hum low and the violins' bows bob to strike wonderful notes. The daily exposure to the classical music was a change to Huntley's tastes while he started to warm up to it and look forward to seeing live performances. He wore impressive suits to concerts that the Joker provided, making Huntley appear too suave to be a simple, working-class citizen. On top of that, the Joker snagged the best seats to shows. Early on, Huntley noticed the high-class types swarmed around him. Not only did he feel out of place at first, but Bruce Wayne even began a conversation with him one day.

Sitting a row in front of Huntley, Bruce Wayne laughed softly to ladies Huntley assumed were his dates. Next Wayne spoke to others in his row. To his surprise, Wayne didn't hold a polished wine glass like all the other influential figures of Gotham around him. Not being able to relax or conform to the fancily-dressed surrounding him, he got up for a bathroom break. _Maybe a little time from this crowd will let me clear my—_Huntley bumped shoulders with someone whom appeared from nowhere.... It was Bruce Wayne!

"Ah-I'm sorry. Please excuse me," Huntley rambled then turned to leave.

"No; I'm sorry," Wayne turned the man around to look him in the eye. "Hey, I haven't seen you around here before.... What do you do?"

Huntley gulped subtly, not being able to produce a reasonable enough lie. ".... A window-washer."

Bruce made a guttural chuckle. "Well, you must be a pretty good window-washer to make it so close to the stage," he didn't say it harshly or sarcastically and eyed Huntley dead-on.

Huntley's shocked eyes dilated in the dimly-lit concert hall to get a better focus on the man in front of him. "Yeah, well, it makes a living. But I can have fun every once and a while."

Bruce nodded, held out his hand, and stated, "Bruce Wayne. I'm proud of people like you who are skilled at their jobs—no matter how important to anyone. Would you like to have some more fun with extra money or even a vacation....?" He held out his syllables to ask for his name.

Huntley moved a bony arm and hand to Wayne's built frame. "Huntley Dyson," he said, feeling the powerful grip closing on his palm.

And just like that, Huntley got the huge job of washing Wayne Manor's windows. _I guess if you approach any businessman in as comfortable an atmosphere as that or in an affable mood, you're bound to make ground-breaking deals,_ Huntley thought to himself, feeling as if he had already become integrated into Gotham's sophisticated ranks.

Author's Notes: If you see where I'm going already, don't think of me as an idiot (although, it _is_ stupid); think of me as an observer. By the way, I have not looked into the occupation of window-washing nor know much except they use squeegees and platforms.... XD But there is a "Sexy Window Washer" video on Youtube that's hilarious and hot! ROFL!

Thank the on-the-spot, improvatory metaphors and other fun things to Daniel Bernard Roumain and Chemistry class... That's my bored mind making fun things out of the ordinary! :D


	5. 1st Overture

Author's Note: Although I had watched _The Dark Knight_ several times (6, to be precise), I was forced to wait until after I watched it the 7th magical time. You see, when I first began this story, it was a few weeks post the last time I saw it in theaters; my mind was already starting to lose all the vital pieces to complete the fanfic to the utmost loyalty. So, no matter how much I love it, the sequence of the action was all a blur. That is why, after getting the 2-disc special edition (man; is it BEAST), I've watched it the very day I started typing these words (December 26th). That reminds me....

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!

**First Overture**

As soon as Huntley received his first few window-washing jobs to increase his experience, the Joker finally revealed the reason he was doing it—to peer in on his clients whom would believe Huntley was finished with his work. Binoculars, the cell phone, and devoted watchfulness were all required to secretly look through each client's night life. All of these things Huntley had possession of—all his conductor had to do was give the signal.

Huntley dutifully reported each job offer to the Joker via the cell phone—most of which earned a sigh and apathetic tone from the phone's earpiece. Without the conductor's permission, Huntley still had sat outside, glaring in at each and every unsuspected identity's homes and movements. However, the offer Bruce Wayne had posed was absolutely nothing to pass up; that was, according to the conductor.

At the mention of Bruce Wayne's name, a sharp silence responded along with some ruffling sounds. Huntley gulped, waiting in suspense, hoping by a prayer that he could be of some direct use to the conductor. On the Joker's end, a few wild gestures were made to crank some gears and get them spinning for the madman's comprehension. He flipped effortlessly through dry data in the form of documents on his makeshift desk that slumped slightly. There wasn't anything holding them back from trying. Still with the phone shoved to his ear, held by a slanted shoulder, the Joker took in a wavering breath and kicked a remaining table leg of the desk. Papers crunched and slid under the toppled table's weight and colored pens flew only to click on the ground.

"....Conductor?!"

"Yes, Huntley."

"Do it...?"

The Joker's pacing ceased and all his muscles went stiff. "DO IT!"

_The first day of a lead on the Batman,_ Huntley grinned excitedly. Although, to Huntley's judgement, Bruce Wayne didn't seem the type to be Batman. The physique and wealth to pull off jaw-dropping stunts were there. But the down-to-earth, crystalline orbs that studied Huntley Dyson that day did not feel as if they held the justice a man like Batman would embed into his very soul. _He was a sincere man. I doubt he has anything to hide. Oh, well. It is irrelevant; as long as I clear his name, I am free to continue searching for the true Batman._

The naïve young man pulled up to the building, supplies at the ready. His co-workers decided to set everything up and elected Huntley to tell their client they arrived. "Ya smooth-twak'd the mill'onaire playboy 'a Gotham inta dis job; don't wanna screw anytin' up here," said the comical co-worker.

Huntley stepped gingerly onto the marble floor in his tattered work-boots and into the lobby. A secretary promply informed him that: "Mr. Wayne has a meeting right now. He told me you and your crew were coming. You have his permission to start up whenever you'd like." Huntley thanked the smiling secretary and returned to the slight and crisp breeze.

Carribeaners were clamped tight and checked for safety prior to signalling the crane operator to ascend. Only when the men were under the looming shadow of Wayne Mansion did they get a professional sense of how large this structure was. Once Huntley stood that close to the building, he contemplated just how much surface he would be required to cover and make shine. Then he would trully start working; in the twilight turned to night.

A thumbs-up was given from each member of the crew to begin ascension.

"Whew," One of the crew announced. "Big job today, boys!"

The crew would take the high route first. The cherrypicker lifter stopped them at halfway. For some clarity, Huntley varified whether the cherrypicker operator was correct and communicated the necessary adjustments. Adrenaline rose when the men were lifted higher and higher—the peak of it dawning on Huntley once the squeegees rest in the workers' hands. _Today will be easy_, Huntley smiled and rolled. _But it'd be best to conserve some of this energy._ He unwillingly slowed to his normal speed, watching the other workers alongside him become anxious and stubbornly, hastefully throw their bodyweight into it.

The habitual silence got Huntley's brain-bantering firing off at air yet again. Once the sweet sting in the shoulders started to work its way into weary arms, Huntley imagined his co-workers coming home to healthy and happy families, then dropping into a deep and natural sleep. Oh, how he wished he could simply be satisfied with that. But, apparently, he wasn't "normal"; tendencies for searching feverishly for _anything_ that could fill his soul. _Salvation may come tonight._

Before Huntley realized it, sweat had traced his cheek and soaked his back, a setting redish-orange sun reflected brightly off the same window he was tirelessly rolling at, and the clinks of tools into stuffed duffel bags blew in the 4-story air.

"C'mon, bub," a worker alerted, tapping Huntley's shoulder. "Time ta go."

This always happened—Huntley had to be awakened from his trances, usually juggling the squeegee with surprise. He had never let it fall to the ground, shivering at the thought of it becoming an aluminum projectile to the Gothamites below. The last thing he was staring at—expressionless--before any outside interruptions was an untainted and clear waterdrop, flipping and skewing the world around him. Upside-down, hollow hazel acknowledged its own existence.

Huntley turned around to face the co-worker, expression unaltered. The co-worker just sighed and smacked his forehead.

"I shoulda known," he admitted. "You would try to out-shine us again."

Huntley smirked back and shrugged playfully, "I guess it's just my personality."

"Awright. Hey, guys! We're gonna abseil down again!" Several of the men cheered, ready to practically free-fall to the bottom.

After all was clear, Huntley breathily rummaged his bag for the cell and organized the rest of the gear to look as compact and hidden as possible. He grinned to himself as the phone rang, peering in at what appeared to be Bruce Wayne's living space.

The Joker's head lifted up from his desk. His hair was now an unkempt and dirty mop—a faded green with noticeable flecks of amber and gold. The attempt at pulling his head back up failed so he settled with resting on his nose. The sun blared into his eyes at this angle—shone from a window wearing broken-wing blinds. When the Joker had finally answered the phone, he squinted at the light and spoke in a groggy tone that bounced from the cold wood of the desk to the receiver.

".... Huh?"

"Conductor! I've begun scouting Wayne Mansion—"

"Hold it," the Joker interrupted, pushing his head into a palm connected to a resting elbow. "Don't expect anything—not even in a couple hours. Unfortunately, the tabloids got it right when they said Bruce Wayne is a playboy. So it is very likely he will be out taking in the night-life." The Joker sighed, silently grumbling to himself that all the rich and powerful were prey to the same petty vanity items and luxurious lifestyles. Too bad they couldn't find the simple thrill and zest he possessed! There was another reason it frustrated him, too.

"Yessir," Huntley docilely replied. "But should there be certain times I can or cannot risk being seen? I have to put myself into view _sometime_ to get a look."

The Joker hummed then snapped his fingers. "Big-shot Wayne has tons of business to attend to, of course. He must be one of those get-home-late types to still hold the title of 'Gotham's Most Eligible Bachelor'. Tryyy.... 10 P.M.-ish. But not past 10:30. Past that, use your own judgement."

"Yes, Conductor." _Click._

The Joker dug uneven nails into overlooked paperwork, into cheap wood, and into a shaky palm. He stopped pressing into the skin until he reached warm red. The licked the self-inflicted wound then tore at it with his teeth. He swept the blood into an arch across the disorderly piles of white, picking up a jagged corner to stick into the area tickling with pain.

"Mmmm, papercut, papercut," he sang giddily, following the pink-ish red stain traveling up the porous paper.

His body shifted back to the ruined, scrunched blinds that flared out to one side.

"Those wings aren't white... Or even black, Bats," The madman recited calmly, starting to smear his own blood across the white. "Red.... Yes; red _feels_ right. Besides, black is for the _(k)night_, Bats."

Author's note: Yes! Don't you love me? I created something for readers to interpret for themselves! Sorry if you don't enjoy the fact of Joker's self-mutilation; it feels as if that part created itself. At least I made a plot device! * Overjoyed *


	6. 2nd Overture

**Second Overture**

_10:01_, Huntley's digital watch read. He had defied the Conductor's orders twice before out of sheer anxiousness—he peeked over the cherry picker's rail. The first time yielded no consequences nor results. The second was at 8:02 when Huntley saw a figure through the binoculars, back facing away from the windows. A closer view revealed that the figure wasn't even Bruce Wayne but an older man whose behavior seemed servant-like. _A butler of Wayne's,_ Huntley discovered. _At least I'm aware of who and how someone could catch me._

He ducked back to the freezing steel platform on an adrenaline rush that didn't seem to have an end. The sway of the cherry picker from the wind and the cold shivers going up and down his spine also kept him alert. So when 10:00 crept onto Gotham City, goosebumps and sweat became the surface of his skin. But, much to his disappointment, no movement nor silhouettes were known for the whole half-hour integral to suspect Bruce Wayne. Nothing to pin onto the Dark Knight; nothing to report to the Conductor. At least not yet. Yes—Huntley would stay for the whole night, towering above Gotham. He was completely unaware that two lives were trapped in separate seas of gasoline and that only one would escape alive. It was all due to reckless logic and fifty-fifty chance. The survivor would adopt the cruel method.... That fate decreed? Was it fate to have one extreme outcome over another?

Purplish-blue stuffed the sky, making the world seem gloomy and hopeless even to Huntley who felt nearest to the heavens. Dawn had begun to pass through Gotham. He sluggishly and carelessly dragged his body upwards, fighting gravity and scratching his head. Huntley trained his binoculars on the living room and carefully adjusted them when locating blurry subjects.

Bruce Wayne sat, head drooping, staring at... A black cowl?! Huntley did a quadruple-take then sunk down to his knees. Every element was in place. The suit was on him and fit like most of the footage actually captured shown and didn't appear much different. His face made him naked to world. But it didn't seem as if he cared at the moment. Huntley saw too many people hurt throughout his life and Bruce was _definitely_ crushed. Possibly questioning if he should continue the role Batman? Yelling at himself for a mistake on-the-job? Huntley whipped his head out those empathetic feelings. He kept telling himself it didn't bother him to uncover another man's—the Batman's—precious secret to his worst enemy.

Huntley numbly punched in the digits and waited patiently for his Conductor to pick up. Once he had made a devotional act to anything, he didn't dare sever that dear connection. Failing to do duties or actions to live up—best to surpass expectations—to the object of adoration, well, that would be death.

He held his breath until a metallic _clack_ greeted him. All the breath rushed out at once, "Conductor, sir. I have confirmed that, indeed, Batman is--"

"_Bruce Wayne_," they spoke in a hushed unison.

The voice-box of the Clown Prince was just getting warmed up.

* * *

_… He's left.... But she's _gone. Bruce saw the huge explosion. Within the same millisecond, his heart dropped and retreated to the impassive-as-a-brick-wall Batman. Having slammed the Joker _into_ a brick wall not too long before he dashed to the rescue, the vague mention of Rachel in danger triggered Bruce to the surface. Even the deep and low Batman voice growling at the Joker made him feel self-conscious that he'd slipped up somewhere in his speech or his actions. But nonetheless, that moment of Bruce's vulnerability blinded him to the Joker's mind-tricks and only sent him to Harvey's location. He wanted both their lives to be spared, of course. But the Batman congratulated him for saving what would be his new stand-in. Bruce was obviously in pain, blaming himself, trying to mourn the sadness from his soul then have enough strength to don the cowl tonight.

_Alfred was going to say something to me..._ Bruce calmly dismissed it, believing that it was a small task that Alfred would leave up to himself in the time to cope with the loss. But who was he kidding? Alfred was hurting just as much. _Maybe less,_ Bruce selfishly thought. He had ran back to his habitual ways—running to Alfred for comfort. He didn't care if he should be sensitive to other's feelings because he knew better than the 8-year-old that sulked for his dead parents. Perhaps the stunted-growth of this life skill was another trait he should frown at himself for. It was just a matter of training and intense self-discipline that would create a stronger defender of Gotham. Bruce purposely brooded for an hour longer so that he could sweat it out, punch it out, beat it out—punish himself—later.

After all was said and done, Bruce morosely called in for personal time off and decided to get dressed. Not that he really cared about how clean-pressed or hygienic he was at the moment. _Just perform the motions. _Alfred called for him down the hallway. Bruce glanced apathetically and analyzed the white envelope Alfred carried.

Bruce stood in the doorway, eyes wide, dress shirt unbuttoned, and a black tie dangling undone from his neck. "... A letter, Alfred?"

* * *

_Batman can take _everything_.... He needs to! _The Batman sped away from Commissioner Gordon, away from the cops he urged to chase him, and away from the severely scarred face that was less damaged than the man's soul. _Harvey.... I wish I could've seen the injuries inflicted from that fall..._ Bruce, the man inside the masked vigilante, bit his lip. _If only I could've mentioned that letter without giving away anything! Would his good side still commit to obligations with friends? Great,_ the Dark Knight practically mouthed. _Not only do I have to watch out for the police, but Harvey as well!_

Black gloves enclosed on the Batpod's handles unconsciously with such power, it jolted the vehicle to greater speeds. It shocked both the man and bat from rage. Now for the task at hand—_safely and with deception, lose the G.P.D.._ When Bruce used the Batpod, not only did he feel as if he entered another level Batman's character, but he melded with the night. The Batpod was designed long and low to give the rider a sensation of flight. He was aware of the rapid pulse in his palms after squeezing its handles; the sheath that protected his arms helped for maneuvering turns and was an extension of the Bat's arm, making him a cyborg; the way the machine allowed for his head to be ducked low; the rubbery smell the front tire gave off when asked the most of; and the tug of his cape on his shoulders from the fastest runs. It was all going on right now.

Adrenaline poured thick through the Batman's blood. The vehicle continued to climb to higher speeds. He bolted through a narrow alley. The Bat logically reaffirmed his sensitivity and decided not to rely on his instincts for the moment. _I'd imagine they are going to try and lure me out once they find they can't catch me. Well, looks like I will drop the first few lies about the direction I'm headed._

As always, Bruce could only trust his nighttime persona to get him through it. Not only did the Dark Knight have to ignore his true identity intertwined with his love and morning of Rachel, but also the plots of Gordon and the rest of Gotham's police force. _Don't believe what the eyes see until the second intentions are known. _This was a philosophy Bruce Wayne constructed after rigorous martial arts mastering, after pouring over epistemology, and just before he hit Gotham's streets the first night as the Batman. Bruce knew full well that the craving for vengeance could senselessly throw his judgment out the window and his body into action. That is why a set, unwavering plan had to be made in order for the Caped Crusader's identity to never reach daylight of this corrupted city. _Total commitment._

However, the decision of what to do next made both Bruce _and_ Bat sigh: _No choice; I'll have to end this quickly by throwing out random devices and, most important of all, _the Batman straddled his vehicle's seat tighter to his knees, _sacrifice the Batpod. _He simultaneously felt obligated to his plan yet feeling sad to destroy his wheels as if he were a proud teenager with his first car. _You'll fund another one, Bruce._

Teeth and determination set on edge, the dark figure veered sharply to the right once emerging from the alleyway. He aimlessly tossed batarangs at the second building he passed. They clung and jutted from the wall, waiting to be discovered. Next, Batman completed a 180 and passed to the left of the alley. _There's a tunnel around here that seems to have a pretty cheap tiled interior. _He sped dangerously, noting the material that could hold if pulled violently. A total of three autos were in the same area with him. With care, he lightly scraped the tile walls with his mangler grip, getting rougher and rougher—closer and closer—to the wall. Bruce was steadily managing the balance of the Batpod until he reached the site of the near-future crash. _The bend is... Here!_ The orangey, florescent-illuminated Dark Knight added some sound to echo and some black tire marks to the roadway of the tunnel. In the same instant, he immediately turned his torso, spotted his safe landing, and launched his grappling hook in the opposite direction. The smell of burnt rubber, the sound of metal and glass colliding, and a brief flash of the equivalent of a supernova ceased behind the Batman once he flung to his landing point.

Bruce glanced briefly at the wreckage; a tangle of black junk with lop-sided tires spinning slowly and regretfully. He had timed the impact to ensure no or minor injuries would occur. Luckily, he had done this job right—he hadn't hurt anyone else so far. He retracted the grappling hook and took off to the alley—allowing himself no reaction—and closer to those he wished to work with but were now major threats. Surprisingly, the vigilante had enough time to dash to the closest building outside of the tunnel entrance, whip out the hook for the second time, and disappear from sight.

Less than a minute later, a pack of Gotham's loyal tracker K9s with a winded police force peered from out the alleyway. They hesitantly split in two to look in both directions for the alluding Bat but were baffled by the very clues he left in his wake. After contacting the Commissioner, Gordon walked with indignant haste towards the policemen a few minutes later. The policemen led Gordon to the batarangs where Gordon shifted his angry glare to the men, crossing his arms, and regarding them with a few loud, frustrated statements.

"Ova here, Commish," a burly officer yelled.

Commissioner Gordon forlornly stepped into the tunnel that had been closed off an hour ago for investigation. He solemnly noted the bear-claw-like marks dashed across the right wall. Sighs: "What is it, Bullock?"

"Down here, at da turn," he pointed down in front of them. "We found this utta piece 'a evidence left by dat bat. Should we call for a few detectives, Commish?"

".... Of course not," Gordon felt conscious about his words reverberating throughout the long tunnel. "Look. I know you just got called in for this case since your promotion but, Bullock, you either haven't paid attention to the details we gave you or you haven't been watching the news."

"Bu-But I'm tryin', Commish, I'm tryin'! It looks like dat ting dat came outta Bat's tank-like-mobile! I jus' didn't think dat jumpin' ta conclusions would solve anyting!"

"Well, Bullock, you'll learn by working on the crimes involved with the Batman that most of the time, you need to let your instinct jump. There isn't much time to waste with a determined citizen taking the reins up himself. Otherwise, everything will be left up to him.... That's not our job."

Harvey Bullock went silent and Jim Gordon sauntered over to the remnants of the Batpod. He nudged what was left of one of the arm holds with a toe, hands in his pockets.

The Commissioner gave a shrug and frown at the same moment and lamented, "How could he manage to do _this_? If he entrusted this bike's care to me, I would've had it freshly polished every morning!"

Author's Note: * Cues dramatic music * BRUCE HAS BEEN FOUND OUT! * Dum, dum, dum * What could possibly happen next?! XD Wait and find out, kiddies.

Sorry for the tons of transitions (and the **huge** wait)! That's the only way I can move the story forward to the actual climactic stuff! DX And the last line in Bruce's 1st perspective is from chapter 3 on purpose; I'm doing complicated time lapses. Although it _is_ necessary to stay loyal to Nolan's portrayal.


End file.
